


I know your best was still your worst

by perfchan



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Emo Keith (Voltron), Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Season 3, Slow Burn, a fic in which keith is grieving and lance is best boy, and they both deserve a lot more happiness than this fic allows, because I love lance, canonverse, it got surprisingly fluffy at the end, its doubtful, klangst, thats just me being weak, the zippers in their suits are probably super special space zippers but just bear with me okay, they are both oblivious, they drink a lot of space coffee because I drink a lot of earth coffee, will I ever write a fic without one or both boys crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 21:57:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perfchan/pseuds/perfchan
Summary: Their relationship (Keith mentally balks at the word; he doesn’t have a relationship with Lance, they tolerate each other. That’s how they’ve always been, that’s how they will continue to be, right? Right.), their ‘relationship’ has been treading further and further into unfamiliar territory since Keith took on the title of leader. Reasonable criticism, supportive suggestions, banter with more affection than bite...as soon as the Black Lion made her choice, Lance seems to be fully committed to supporting Keith as the leader.It’s one more thing that Keith doesn’t know how to deal with.*Keith feels alone and apart from the group as he adjusts to leading Voltron. He gets a little help along the way.





	I know your best was still your worst

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set tentatively in the first few episodes of season three, beginning before Shiro is reunited with team. This is kind of a reaction fic to those episodes, and the whole season I guess, parsing out how Keith was feeling. I’m hesitant to call it a ‘fix-it’ fic because it’s canonverse but doesn’t particularly stick to canon events, or canon timeline, exactly. Honestly, I don’t know exactly what this is but I figured Keith wasn’t the easiest to deal with during those moments (not that he didn’t have his reasons) and I wanted to write about it.

 

***

 

Keith leans into the turn, pulling the Black Lion around so that it faces the others. She doesn’t handle as effortlessly as Red. The feeling of being clunky, sluggish even, lingers despite the many hours he’s now logged at these controls. Flying Red had felt  _ organic _ \---from the first time she opened up to him, to the last time he fought sitting in her cockpit-- it was as if he only had to think of a maneuver for it to be possible. But in Black, he’s desperate, using all his skill as a pilot to capture only the faintest shadow of whatever action he’s trying to produce. It’s exhausting. “Team,” he calls out, putting effort into making his voice sound calmer than he is, trying to keep the comms free of the irritation he’s feeling. “Let’s stop for today. We’re not making any more progress at this point.” 

 

There’s a murmur of agreement on all ends, a sigh of relief from Hunk and optimistic chatter between Lance and Allura regarding Blue. Keith mutes the others as they make their way back to the castle. He slumps back in the chair and feels acutely how it’s much too big for him. 

 

They hadn’t accomplished what he’d expected them to that day. He feels strongly that the fault lies with  _ him _ . If only he was a better leader, a better motivator, more skilled, then the team wouldn’t be having these issues. 

 

If he had similar thoughts within Red, she would have been quick to stifle them: a flash of her fierce temper and a hot ‘ _ not my paladin _ .’ His bond with the Black Lion, if you can call it that, is much more subdued. No reaction whatsoever to his self doubt. It occurs to him, after he docks and exits her hanger, maybe it’s because she privately agrees. 

 

Lance finds him afterwards in the changing room, where they generally keep their paladin uniforms. Keith’s managed to take off his helmet, but sits otherwise fully armored, slowly gathering the motivation to change back into his civilian clothes. Two weeks ago, the Blue Paladin--no, wait, he’s the Red Paladin now, isn’t he? But that’s not quite right either--two weeks ago, Lance seeking him out would have been a surprise. However, Keith can hardly be surprised if something has happened over and over again, and so he regards Lance’s casual presence now with wary acceptance. 

 

“Hey man,” Lance approaches him, pulling his own helmet off, his not quite-smile radiating warmth. “Nice job out there today.” 

 

Their relationship (Keith mentally balks at the word; he doesn’t have a  _ relationship _ with Lance, they  _ tolerate _ each other. That’s how they’ve always been, that’s how they will continue to be, right? Right.), their ‘relationship’ has been treading further and further into unfamiliar territory since Keith took on the title of leader. Reasonable criticism, supportive suggestions, banter with more affection than bite...as soon as the Black Lion made her choice, Lance seems to be fully committed to supporting Keith as the leader. 

 

It’s one more thing that Keith doesn’t know how to deal with. 

 

He responds to Lance’s comment with a short wave of his hand, tone caustic, “Yeah, I’m sure Lotor will be amazed as we fumble around each other and form Voltron on the seventh try.” 

 

Lance sighs. As with most of his expressions, it’s needlessly dramatic. A puff of air, a slouching of shoulders, a roll of the eyes, and he tops it all off with pursed lips and a head tilted critically in Keith’s direction. “Yanno…” he begins. 

 

Keith takes the sigh as Lance’s rebuttal to his previous comment, and he clenches his fists, arms tight at his sides, emotions pulled taut and ready to snap. 

 

“Woah, woah, Keith, hang on a tick before you go all supernova on me,” Lance yelps, his hands stroking, placating, at the air between them. “I was just gonna say,” Lance continues, purposefully light, “Maybe tomorrow is the day for that break I was talking about?” 

 

Honestly, at this point, Team Voltron is entitled to a break. It should have already happened. Lance had been whining about it the previous night after they returned from a hard won skirmish with some non-Galra mercenaries. It had been an unexpected and cruel battle, tears were shed, injuries healed. Keith had made calls, bad calls, and it had been sheer luck and Pidge’s quick thinking that saved the day. His ‘leadership’ had almost gotten them killed. And it wasn’t the first time. No one said as much, but under his direction, they were barely scraping by. And, even though tears dry and a cryopod cures, emotional exhaustion lingers. 

 

So. They should have taken today off, no training. A mental health day. It wasn’t lazy, it was  _ logical _ . 

But, even though the logic is sound, Keith can’t bring himself to submit to it. He considers a break and something in his mind needles him,  _ Is the enemy taking a break? Is Shiro, where ever he is, allowed to take a break?  _ It’s agonizing. It’s the same voice that coaxes him to the training deck when all he wants is his bed; the same voice that assured him, young and scared and without a home, that he must simply  _ try harder _ with the next family...if he were good enough, things would have worked out in his favor. 

 

Lance unsnaps the gauntlets from his forearms, pulling his gloves off, then runs a hand through his hair. It stays in place after his hand drops back down to his side, little tufts sticking out around his forehead, matted with the sweat from his helmet. 

 

Lance slumps. Keith lowers his gaze from Lance’s messy hair to his eyes. The irises remain as crystal clear blue as ever, but there’s a stroke of purple under each eye that wasn’t there a month ago. 

 

“Anyways, believe it or not, I didn’t come here to argue with you.” 

 

Keith nods. “Is that all you wanted to say?” he responds, tone flat. He pulls his boots off, no longer making eye contact. 

 

“I wanted to say,” Lance’s pitch rises ever so slightly, “I’m beat, man. I need-- we all need-- a day off.” He shrugs out of the chest plate of his armor, leaving just the black bodysuit underneath. 

 

As soon as Lance verbally acknowledges that he’s tired, the feeling in Keith increases ten fold. Fatigue threatens to overwhelm him as he stands to take off his own gear, ready to shower and collapse into bed. A small respite before they start it all over tomorrow. 

 

“The empire doesn’t take a day off.” Keith counters, but his voice has lost its edge. He fumbles with the zipper hidden in the back of the collar of his suit. Lance moves forward and gently turns Keith around, brushing his fumbling fingers away with a murmur of “Here, let me,” before responding to Keith’s comment. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not the Galra empire then.” He unfastens the back of Keith’s shirt, one hand on his shoulder, the other pulling the zip down between Keith’s shoulder blades. He pauses, and all the artificial air in the castle seems to catch in Keith’s chest at once. Instead of stepping away, Lance leans forward, resting his forehead against the nape of Keith’s neck. Lance exhales and warm, shaky breath tickles the exposed skin of Keith’s back. 

 

“It’s not your fault we’re struggling,” Lance says, soft against his skin. “And...burning yourself out won’t help any of us. You can rest. You’re allowed.” 

 

“Lance....” Keith begins, a false start. His throat feels too small for the words to respond. 

 

“Just think about it,” Lance squeezes Keith’s shoulder, turning to leave, the moment over. “Preferably while you shower, because you kiiiiiiinda reek.” He adds as an afterthought: “Mullet.” 

 

“Lance.” 

 

“Nah, that’s all I wanted to say…. wheeeelp, I’m late for a hot date with my pillow, smell ya later Keith, or hopefully not, bye!!” Lance finishes in a rush, bounding out of the room. 

 

Keith pulls at the zipper suspended halfway down his back, and peels his arms out of the sleeves. He sets the shower to hot, very hot, and mechanically steps under the water, eyes closed, one hand fluttering over the back of neck. 

 

* 

 

Everything had been different before the last battle with Zarkon.

 

Obviously. 

 

Because now Shiro is gone. A gaping hole,  _ he never gave up on me, _ a crucial, crucial member of their team. Gone. 

 

It’s not just his absence though. Morale has changed. The feeling in the castle. In the days leading up to that battle, they were bright eyed, hopeful voices, _ this is what we’ll do when we get home _ . They had been so sure, before that mission; it had felt like this war was at a tipping point. But then it tipped, and it wasn’t in Voltron’s favor. When they came back from the so-called “final” battle, it wasn’t to a victorious afterglow, it was to the seemingly impossible task of more fighting. Uniting “rebel” forces. To Keith, this new objective feels like a shot in the dark. It feels like a tenuous hold on any meaningful resistance.  It feels like starting back at square one. Only this time they don’t have Shiro. 

 

When the Black Lion chose him, Keith was terrified. Because it’s one thing if his recklessness gets himself into trouble, but it’s another thing entirely if someone on the team suffers because of his rash judgement. He’s not Shiro. Despite what Lance had said, they were struggling and it was  _ absolutely _ his fault. He tries not to dwell on Lance’s unfounded confidence in him, just like he pushes aside the feeling of his casual touch in the changing room….As if that wasn’t possibly the most intimate moment that they had ever shared. Galaxies and enemies and the fate of the universe on his shoulders all faded to the background with the pressure of a hand on his shoulder and the ghost of a breath on his skin. 

 

Keith can’t pinpoint the exact moment Lance went from gangly and awkward to charming in his eyes. All he knows is that somewhere between “We were like rivals….yanno, Lance and Keith, neck and neck?” and now, he’s fallen. Hard. He knows the shape of Lance’s hands because he watches them while he talks. He knows the sound of his hightops in the hallway and his boots on the training deck. Keith doesn’t always understand the punchline, but he can predict when it’s coming based on the quirk of Lance’s brows and the way his smile starts to curl, a little premature, at the edges of his mouth. Lance is loud and melodramatic and has a sense of humor that never made it out of the sixth grade, but for some reason, he brings an undeniable warmth to a room...and Keith can’t help but crave it in his absence. He’s emotional and high-strung and at first glance he just seems like kind of an idiot, but every time Keith thinks he has Lance figured out, he finds that there’s more to him than meets the eye. Keith can’t explain exactly what  _ it _ is about Lance, but. He’s captivated.

 

Like now. Lance is sitting at the table, chatting good naturedly with Kolivan across a cup of coffee and a bowl of food goo. Lance looks  _ adorable _ , so small in comparison with the Blade of Marmora’s leader, yet apparently at ease in his presence, yawning and still in his pajamas, with his hair rumpled from sleep. Keith frowns, pushing the distracting thought of Lance’s bedhead away. He busies himself with preparing some breakfast, not a part of their conversation. 

 

Lance swings his spoon as he questions Kolivan, lazily punctuating his words, “But I’m sure at least Anvaa was happy to hear that, huh?” 

 

The expression Kolivan makes in response is the closest Keith has seen any of the Blade members come to smiling. He allows, “Yes, she certainly was pleased.” 

 

Keith listens on for a moment, adding an absurd amount of sugar to the half-cream-half-coffee mixture he has swirling in his mug. How does Lance get to be so familiar with everyone? Kolivan says something which Keith misses over the aggressive slorp-slorping of the goo generator, but it makes Lance titter in response. It should be an annoying sound, Lance’s goofy half-laugh, this early in the morning especially, but Keith can’t find it in himself to be irritated by it. 

 

As he leaves the mess hall, bowl balanced in one hand, coffee in the other, Lance waves him over to the table. Keith nods in response, just to give a quick ‘good morning,’ but takes his breakfast elsewhere. He has too much to do to spend the morning talking. 

 

“Who is Annva?” he asks later in the day, despite himself. Lance’s sleepy morning chuckle has stayed with him all day long, despite his best efforts to put it out of his mind. 

 

“Annva...oh you mean Anvaa?” Lance wonders, correcting his pronunciation. “Kolivan’s daughter?” 

 

“Kolivan has a daughter?” Keith stops in his tracks, halting their walk from the training room to their lions’ respective hangars. 

 

“He has three. Anvaa is his youngest.” He smirks, “And, like all youngest children, definitely his favorite.” 

 

“How do you know something like that?” 

 

Lance shrugs. “We spent some time together on Puig, right? These Blade of Marmora folks seem like tough nuts to crack, but if you get them talking about their kids, they’re just like anybody else.” 

 

Keith stares at him, incredulous. “They all have kids…..they all tell you about their kids.”

 

“Well. Not all of them? Matlov is more of a cat person.” He frowns at Keith. “Hey, if you were gonna eavesdrop, you should’ve sat down and joined us for breakfast! Kolivan isn’t exactly a bucket of laughs, but he’s not a bad guy.” 

 

Keith thinks back to his trial with the Blade of Marmora and any conversations he’s had with Kolivan since. They’ve ranged from tense to outright hostile. “Somehow I don’t think my company would be welcome,” he comments. 

 

“Nah,” Lance disagrees. 

 

They’ve reached the point in the walk where they should part. For a moment, Keith considers continuing on with Lance. He could even possibly spend the entire afternoon with him under the pretense of checking up on Red. But they have a mission to prepare for-- in a few hours they’ll be attacking a Galra base. He can’t afford to be relaxed. He can’t afford these distractions. Heart heavy, he offers a curt see-you-later and turns to make his way towards the Black Lion. 

 

*

 

Eventually, they get their day off. 

 

Despite the intentional lack of a schedule, it doesn’t feel like a vacation to Keith. He gives up on sleep at 0600 hours and begins his day with a jog, which makes him feel incomparably better than the few hours he spent tossing and turning in his bed. He stretches afterwards, muscles loose, pleasantly warm with exertion and endorphins as he makes his way to the mess hall, grabbing one of the protein supplemented goo packs to sip on. 

 

He takes the long way back to the training deck, purposefully avoiding the hall with Shiro’s room, breathing in deep the recycled Altean air and the ever-present hum of the ship. Once there, he practices his form with the black bayard alone for a little while. The weight of the blade feels different than his red one, but he’s getting more confident with it everyday. Satisfied, eventually he pulls up the training sequence Shiro had been working through before he….before. No one has successfully completed it yet. 

 

Several hours, another goo pack, and a long shower later, he walks into the common room to find Lance in the thralls of an involved anecdote that has the rest of the group  _ rolling _ . 

 

“....So by this point, I’m just totally confused,” Lance is pacing shortly in front of Allura on the couch, gesturing widely with his hands, completely in his element. “But I’m still holding the wig, remember I have no idea, and so I turn to Stevie,” 

 

“From the orientation group?” Allura gasps out between laughs, tears escaping from her scrunched up eyes. 

 

“Yeah, Steven from orientation, not Stephen with the ‘ph’ who I totally got back later in astrochem, by the way--I’ll tell you that story next--”

 

“Oh the A-chem one is a  _ treat _ ,” Hunk interjects, grinning, 

 

“So I turn to Stevie--dead serious--and I’m like ‘No. You said  _ chicken nuggets _ .’” 

 

Pidge wails with laughter and thumps the table with her palm, so aggressively it knocks over a partially filled Connect Four set. 

 

Allura collapses over on the couch, legs flailing, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, hands covering her face. “Lance. You did not.” 

 

“Oh yes I did.” Lance has a smug, satisfied smile on his face. “And of course, at just that moment, Dr. Montgomery--” He stops, having noticed Keith’s presence hovering at the edge of the room. “Keith! What’s up?”

 

Keith feels very much like an intruder on their conversation. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. “Nothing? I just wanted to see where everybody was.” He meets Pidge’s eyes for a moment before she starts picking up the pieces of the game, head ducked back down. Allura sits up, prim, and wipes her face. Hunk picks at the edge of one of his gloves, not looking at Keith at all, and it’s like a slap in the face: they look guilty. Like he caught them doing something they weren’t supposed to be doing.  “Guys?” 

 

“I was just filling Allura in on what Garrison life was really like,” Lance says, a little awkwardly. The smarmy grin that suits his face so well is gone, replaced by a thin line of worry, a knit between his brows that Keith hates. “Sorry if we got kinda loud.” 

 

“No. You weren’t too loud.” Keith feels close to a breaking point. He’s not good at this. He feels anger boiling under his skin, and it’s clawing at his throat to not let it overflow; he wants to threaten, to shout:  _ if you have something to say to me just  _ say _ it _ , or maybe plead: _ if you have a problem with me, just  _ tell _ me and I’ll fix it _ . Because this isn’t him, trying to be quiet and subdued and level-headed and think of the team and can you see it now, is it obvious yet,  _ he’s not a leader, Shiro _ , he’s the not the leader Shiro thought he was, he’s not Shiro, he can’t…

 

“Keith?” Lance is looking at him. He’s sprawled himself out on the couch opposite Allura and he pats the cushion next to him invitingly. “C’mon, put your feet up dude, stay awhile.” 

 

“I was just headed--” Keith begins, but Lance’s expression is too open, too earnest to oppose. Goodwill is written all over his features and so Keith settles down on the couch, hesitant. Lance resumes. 

 

“Okay, now tell me what you remember about Dr. Montgomery.”  

 

Keith’s time at the Garrison feels like a movie he watched once, rather than his own history,  he’s so far removed from it. All the same, he conjures up an image of a dark gray pencil skirt, starched shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Mauve-y lipstick and never a hair out of place. “She...always struck me as being kind of suspicious, honestly.” 

 

Hunk groans. “Here we go.” 

 

“Right?! Right?!” Lance voice rises a pitch in excitement. “I kept telling Hunk I got  _ such _ a C.G.B. Spender kinda vibe from her. For real. Okay, so…”

 

Lance launches into another animated story, this time detailing a near catastrophe involving their physics professor and the Department Chair’s teacup poodle. Pidge interjects a few dry comments here and there, even as she struggles to best Hunk in their seemingly endless game of Connect Four. Soon, Allura is giggling again and Keith has to muffle a few snorts of disbelief as the story gets increasingly outrageous. Lance sits with one arm slung around the back of the couch behind Keith, the other used for wild punctuation, his legs crossed wide, one of his ankles resting on his knee. Keith watches the bottom of his hightop move as Lance jiggles his foot insistently at the details of his anecdote. He’s comfortable…... 

 

*

 

“Morning, sunshine.” Pidge doesn’t look up from her screen as Keith rolls over, rubbing sleep from his eyes. She’s sitting on the end of the couch, curled up next to his feet, with her ever present computer balanced in her lap. 

 

“What time is it,” he asks blearily. 

 

She responds with a wave of her hand. “Does it matter? You’ve been out for a few varga. Five-ish”

 

Keith sinks back into the pillow. That’s probably the best sleep he’s gotten in weeks. He gets up on one elbow and realizes he’s wrapped in a blanket. “Wh--”

 

“Lance and Hunk brought them.” Pidge answers his question before he can ask it. “As a compromise. He wanted Hunk to take you to your actual bed, but Hunk said you had too many knives concealed on your person to move unexpectedly. How many knives do you actually have?” She peers over her screen, likely making a guess before she moves on. “Anyways so they spent the better half of an hour building this pillow fort with stuff from everybody’s rooms.” 

 

Now that she mentions it, there are way too many pillows here for one person to actually use. The ground around Keith is stacked in a kind of barricade. “That’s so…” 

 

“Unnecessary? Yeah.” She smirks. “And then I was stationed here to make sure no one wakes you up. Which if you think about it, also makes no sense, because the one most likely to wake you up is Lance himself. But he insisted.” 

 

Keith processes this, mind still slow with sleep. 

 

“Don’t get all mushy about it,” Pidge warns. “Your eyes are getting that soft, mushy look that they always get around Lance.” 

 

Keith starts to deny whatever expression she’s implying, but she continues, “Also, just fyi, as soon as you started to drool, he took pictures.” 

 

“What. Why?”

 

She shrugs. “Blackmail? Personally, I want to slap whatever alien gave him that camera. Who knows what he has on the rest of us.” She taps Keith’s feet by her side. “Hey, since you’re awake, take a look at this. I think I’m finally making progress in figuring out where these masks originated…”

 

Keith scoots up close to her and listens intently as she explains her theory on Matt’s location. The video is only a few frames long, but Pidge has been able to glean so much from it just by researching their clothing and other clues. Incredible. Her childlike hands pause over the keys as she finishes, determined. “I know there’s still more work I need to do, but this is a solid lead.” 

 

Nodding, Keith flips through the screens she has pulled up. “This is good, Pidge. Really good.” Combined with all the training they’ve been doing as a team, and the work she’s put in to search for Shiro, she might be getting even less sleep than he is. He feels a pang of regret for not noticing it sooner. “I mean it. Sometimes I forget how lucky we are to have you on the team.” 

 

Pidge screws her mouth up in response, does a quick, nervous adjustment of her glasses. “Uh.” 

 

Keith responds, a little cross, “I was trying--I mean, you--”

 

“No,” she softens, “It’s just. That kinda sounded like something Shiro would say.” 

 

“Oh.” Keith hesitates. Shiro is the closest approximation he’s ever had to family. His older brother in all but blood….naturally, any familial tenderness he shows towards Pidge would come off as secondhand-- Shiro is the only one in his life with whom he’s experienced that sort of conversation. He can recall innumerable instances in which he was irrational with anger or doubt and Shiro’s level headed, impartial advice had brought everything back into focus. He could always depend on Shiro to be that steady voice of encouragement. Keith leans away from Pidge on the sofa, visibly withdrawing. Pidge catches his knee with her hand, just for a moment. 

 

“Not that that’s a bad thing!” she backtracks, mistaking his unease for offense. He nods, just a quick jut of the head, but somehow she gets it without him having to explain. “I miss him too,” she admits softly, focusing on minimizing her screens to distract from having to make eye contact. “But I’m not giving up. Not on Shiro. Not on Matt.” 

 

“Yeah. I know you won’t.” Keith agrees, voice thick with emotion. He gets up, folding the blanket in half long-ways, then in fourths, Garrison regulation style. He piles the pillows on top and gathers the towering stack into his arms. “I’m just gonna,” he motions to the door with full arms. 

 

She nods. “They’re probably in Hunk’s room.” 

 

*

 

Keith makes his way through the castle at a slow pace, more or less blind thanks to the enormous stack of pillows he’s transporting. He heads towards Hunk’s room, but it seems far too quiet for Lance to be anywhere in the vicinity. They must be somewhere else….

 

Hands full, he taps at the base of the doorframe with his foot, in a halfhearted attempt at a knock. Might as well try, since he came all this way. To his surprise, the door slides open and when he sticks his head in the room, he finds them both present. “I have your pillows,” he states, muffled. 

 

Hunk is tinkering with a complicated apparatus at his desk, and Lance…. Lance is strewn across Hunk’s bed, fast asleep. His hands are curled into loose fists, arms slung over his head, mouth slack. The blue and white baseball tee he typically wears is pooled up above his navel, uncovering his smooth, tan stomach. His jeans are crumpled up at the edge of the bed, long legs left bare, stripped down to just boxers and socks. He sleeps on his back, with one knee bent, revealing a line of skin where his skin is just slightly paler under the hem of his shorts. With difficulty, Keith pulls his eyes away from the taut muscle there and manages, “Won’t he be cold?” 

 

Hunk shrugs. “Well yeah, probably. But he gave you all my bedding. Thanks for bringing it back, by the way.” 

 

Keith nods. “Should I…” He begins to walk to the bed, hesitant. 

 

“Oh don’t worry, you won’t wake him up. Lance is a heavy sleeper.” Hunk chuckles. “At the Garrison he used to joke that he was always ‘DTN: Down To Nap.’ I found him asleep in one of the flight simulators once, no lie.” 

 

Lance seems to be fine with his current sleeping arrangement, but Keith unfolds the blanket and spreads it over him regardless. The quiet murmur Lance makes in response should be illegal. Feeling more than a little warm, Keith turns to Hunk and peeks over his shoulder in an effort to distract himself. He clears his throat. “What’s that?”

 

“Mouse shower.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

“Yeah, I owed them,” Hunk purses his lips in concentration, completely oblivious to Keith’s questioning look. He continues to fiddle with the with the complicated looking device while he elaborates. “I made it transportable so that they can use it anywhere in the castle. Ya know, because I don’t think they like to stay in one place too much. I gotta say, the water pressure in this baby is,” he closes his eyes in satisfaction and mimes kissing his fingertips like a chef, “but I really wanted to go the extra mile.” Picking up a set of pliers, he adjusts the wiring in the piece he’s working on at the moment. “So I’m adding in an itty bitty towel warmer for the little guys.” 

 

“Sounds...good.” 

 

“Yeah.” He sets down the project and turns to Keith. “Hey. Are you okay man? Like, are you doing okay?” 

 

Keith blinks. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

 

“I dunno.” Hunk tilts his head noncommittally. “I’m glad you slept. When you first came to the common room, I thought you were going to have a major meltdown. No offense.” Keith scowls but Hunk barrels on, unperturbed. “It’s good we took a day off, honestly. Lance has been trying to get you to chill for weeks now.” 

 

“He has?” 

 

“Yeah, it’s been, like, the only thing he talks about.” 

 

Keith crosses his arms, his heart beating too fast. “News to me.”

 

“It would be. He tries to put up a cool front, but, you know Lance.” Hunk taps his chest with the pliers. “He feels stuff. He’s a worrier.” His face melts into fondness, “Probably why me and him get along.” 

 

Keith looks at Lance, spread out over Hunk’s bed, completely guileless. He sleep talks something incomprehensible, possibly not English, and his fingers twitch ever so slightly above his head. Keith can’t help but smile at the sight; even in sleep Lance won’t shut up. It’s difficult to imagine him worrying over anything too much. Keith’s shoulders sag.

 

“I didn’t notice.” 

 

Hunk gives him a critical look before turning back to his desk. “Well, it’s true.” Frowning, his eyes scan the desk, “...Where did I leave that crystal…” he shuffles through the clutter, making a satisfied noise when he finds the shard. Keith watches with eyebrows raised in mild alarm as the thing sparks while Hunk slides the crystal into place. Not overly concerned, Hunk snorts and takes it back out, making some minute adjustments. “These alien power sources are wild,” he muses, talking to himself as he scribbles down a few numbers in his notepad. 

 

“I’ll let you get back to it then…” Keith watches for a moment more as Hunk deftly connects the pieces of the apparatus together, flipping it back and forth to check the fit. 

 

“Sounds good,” he waves over his shoulder. “See you at dinner, okay, Keith?”

 

*

 

A quintant or two later, Keith is poring through data logs on the control deck, late at night. 

 

Immediately following the battle with Zarkon, Pidge had sent out probes, eight of them, in eight directions, that constantly ping back information that could potentially lead to finding Shiro. Keith reviews the data as often as he can. It is hopeless, looking for him like this; Shiro is a needle in an infinite haystack, and he’s looking through it as if with tweezers. But as ineffective as this method is, at least it covers more figurative ground than Keith physically can in his lion. (Not that he had wanted to stop visiting the site of their last battle, scrutinizing each bit of debris, piece by piece. But there’s nothing there. No reason to keep returning). And so, once again tonight, he reads the logs, endlessly scrolling through information, jotting down anything of substance in a notepad, terrified of missing the crucial piece. 

 

Eventually frustration sets in, as it inevitably does. He rubs out the burning in his eyes with the heel of his hand, huffing out a breath to compose himself. Elbows on his knees, he knits his hands over the back of his neck, trying to be  _ patient _ , be  _ focused _ , keep going. He swallows, his turbulent thoughts slipping back to that last battle, blaming himself, even though it doesn’t quite make sense, but if he’d only trained harder, learned better, been faster, flown farther...

 

His concentration breaks entirely with the sound of Lance’s footfall approaching the control deck. Lance’s gentle “hey” echoes softly through the room, and Keith swats his notebook closed, irrationally angry at being found. Lance pads up behind Keith, setting a hand on the back of his chair, and whistles softly at the massive amount of information on the screens. 

 

“How long’ve you been at this?” 

 

“Dunno,” Keith resists the urge to get up and push past him, to duck his head and run away. He wipes his eyes again, defiant. “Maybe a varga, two. Not long enough.”

 

Lance makes a sound like a buzzer. Wrong. “Try three and a half.”

 

“Why’d you ask the question if you already knew the answer?” Keith snaps, an unsaid  _ ‘Leave. Me. Alone. _ ’ in his tone. 

 

“I’m funny like that.” Lance digs around in his jacket pocket and pulls out a pack of tissues, unfolding one to hand to Keith. “It’s clean,” he says defensively before Keith can make any other remark. 

 

Keith takes it and blows halfheartedly at his nose. He doesn’t know if he can handle being around Lance right now. Lance is…intense. The way he moves, and talks, and the emotions he stirs in Keith that would be better left unexpressed. Keith rips at the edge of the tissue, trying to decide on the words that will be the least offensive, but still make Lance leave him alone. As tired as he is, he has to finish this. 

 

“Anyways,” Lance says, pulling up a hover screen, and taking a seat close to Keith, “Everyone else on the ship is dying to for my company-- handsome  _ and _ witty-- but I don’t feel like telling any stories about my awesome life tonight. That makes  _ you,  _ Mr. I Go Whole Days Without Talking to Anyone, the perfect companion.” He drops the affectation. “Seriously, I came to help.” He flips through the probes’ data logs one by one. “Have you gotten to the epsilon tangent yet?”

 

Keith shakes his head. 

 

“Cool.” Lance settles into his chair. “I’ll start there.” Without any further conversation, he begins,  mouth moving ever so slightly as he reads. 

 

They fall into comfortable silence, and Keith finds himself able to concentrate once more. He becomes so absorbed in the work that he doesn’t notice Lance leaving until he returns, carrying two mugs. “For you,” he murmurs, their fingers brushing, as he hands Keith the coffee. 

Keith sips. It’s sweet, just the right amount of sugar and cream.

 

Keith turns to thank him, but Lance is already preoccupied with a spreadsheet he created for his tangent’s data. As he reads, he spins a pen in his hand, effortlessly, a trick he probably refined in middle school. The pen halts and Lance copies something down in his bold, sure script. He wrinkles his nose and uses the back of the pen to scratch at his head. “I dunno,” he says, breaking the silence. Keith starts, scrambling back to his notebook, guilty at having been caught staring. Lance doesn’t seem to notice. “I don’t think I’ve found anything useful yet.”  

 

Looking down into his cup, Keith agrees with a slow nod. “I’m starting to think there might be nothing to find, Lance.” It feels treasonous to voice his doubts. He swallows. “You don’t have to stay anymore. Thanks…”  _ Thanks for coming when I needed you _ .  _ Thanks for just being here _ . “Thanks...for the coffee.” 

 

“No problem man.” Lance wiggles around in his seat, stretches his arms over his head. “I think I’ll keep at it...unless you’re ready to call it quits?” He says the last part slyly, like it’s a challenge. 

 

Keith bristles. “I’m not quitting.” 

 

“Good. Because I could do this all night.” Lance opens the last log they’ve yet to dissect and splits the screen, so they each have half. 

 

The time goes more quickly after that. Lance eases into a friendly conversation, sharing the notes he’s jotted down. He proposes a plan for the next movement and Keith compiles a list of coordinates to give to Pidge, feeling much more hopeful than when he first began. 

 

*

 

Keith looks onwards as Allura finishes plotting the course and explaining the team’s primary objective for the next two quintants. It’s not a mission per se, but there have been reports of Galra scouts in the quadrant they’ll be traveling through, so they’ll have to be vigilant all the same. Keith plucks at the star map, pulling the main inhabited planet into closer view. Coran indulges his questions about the civilization there. Both Alteans positively beam when Keith suggests a quick recon mission, to see if the leaders would welcome an alliance with Voltron. 

 

He accepts their praise dully. It still feels like he’s playing a part, like he shouldn’t be the one here right now. He’s a pilot, not a diplomat. He doesn’t have the disposition for it, nevermind the skillset. 

 

The intercom in the room buzzes into life, and Lance’s voice comes through, clear and bright. “Hey Coran, what’s crack-a-lackin in the control room?” 

 

“Nothing cracking or lacking, my boy, just plotting the course through the Jymarri quadrant. Something you needed?” 

“Cool cool. Noooo...not really a need, I was just wondering if you had seen our friendly neighborhood mullet man? Can’t find him anywhere.” 

 

“I’m in here, Lance.”

 

“Oh! Finally! You’re a hard man to find, Keith. I’ve been all over this castle trying to....anyways. When you get a minute, wanna come down to the training deck? I have something to show you.” 

 

Keith looks towards Allura who nods. “Yeah, we’re just finishing up here, I’ll be there soon.” Before long, he’s making his way to the training deck, relieved to be back in familiar territory. He tells himself that the slight uptick in his heart rate has to do with his pace, and not the idea of Lance searching for him throughout the castle. 

 

When he arrives at the training deck, Lance is nowhere to be found. He’s about to leave, when he hears his name being called. 

 

Startled, Keith looks around to find the source of Lance’s voice. He spots Lance perched high above the floor, on the opposite side of the hall, in a kind of make-shift turret he must have developed just for this scenario. “What are you doing?” He calls over, not even sure if his voice will carry that far. 

“Just watch!!” Lance hollers down at him. Keith squints as he watches Lance hunch down and adjust his helmet. “Begin training sequence Alpha-Seven-Sixteen.” Lance’s voice commands through the comms and echos out of the room’s speakers. 

 

Alpha-Seven-Sixteen is Shiro’s training module. The same one Keith has been working through, day after day, but still hasn’t mastered. Keith scoffs, irritated despite himself. Is this a joke? 

 

The first seven gladiators appear in the room and Keith shakes his head. What is Lance doing? It’s true he has the higher ground, but the gladiators can equip themselves with guns if they want; at this point, the easiest point in the exercise, it’s seven against one...and Lance is not even in range, he’s too far awa---

 

A stroke of white screams across the hall and the first gladiator crumples. Keith’s eyes dart to where Lance is positioned in time to see him take aim and demolish the second, and the third bot. He sees Keith staring and perks up from the scope, giving him a cheerful wave. “Keep watching, buddy!” 

 

Lance transformed his bayard into a long-range weapon? A goddamn sniper rifle. The hell? Keith practically laughs, he’s too taken aback to keep the grin off of his face. 

 

The scenario is programmed with enough A.I. to eventually develop a countermeasure to Lance’s strategy. He still manages to take out a good six waves of soldiers before the gladiators begin attacking on a higher level, out of his range. 

 

“Whoopsy daisy!” Lance smirks and begins running down the stairs from his tower. As he stands, his bayard reconstructs itself into his hands, once more transformed into the blaster Lance typically uses. Keith audibly gasps at the change; it was so smooth his eyes wouldn’t have even caught it if they weren’t glued to Lance. 

 

Lance looks so... _ good _ like this. Confident, focused. Keith burns as he watches Lance wield the red bayard with practiced ease, whooping and laughing as he successfully drops enemy after enemy, absurdly precise. He dances around them, using his speed and long limbs to his advantage. A gladiator that gets too close grazes him and gets the butt of his gun to the temple in return. Keith is starstruck. 

 

“Training Sequence Alpha-Seven-Sixteen. Cleared.” 

 

Lance pumps his fist in triumph, pulling his helmet off as he jumps around the room, shouting. “Yes!! Yes!! Now that’s what I’m talking about!!” 

 

He turns to Keith, brilliant, out-of-breath, wiping the dripping sweat off his brow, “Whaddya think? Pretty good, huh?” 

 

Pretty good?  _ Pretty good?!  _ Keith is incoherent. “Pretty--!! Lance, that was..! Amazing. Wha--When did you learn to do that thing with your bayard?”

 

Lance beams, unused to the praise. He holds the red bayard out between them. Focusing, he transforms it from the collapsed bayard into his typical gun, then the long range rifle. Keith curses in awe. 

 

“It took a  _ lot _ of practice.” Lance admits, a little sheepish. The shyness dissipates quickly, however, as he transforms it back into his blaster and slings it over his shoulder, one hip out, posing. He winks at Keith, as he spins the gun in one hand, drops into a crouch, and in a blur, makes the rifle appear at his side as soon as he’s in position. 

 

“Show off,” Keith remarks, not bothering to hide his smile. 

 

Grinning, Lance rises to his feet, holding the rifle. “Okay, I’m done.” The bayard dissolves from his hand. “Check it out, I have all  _ kinds _ of ideas for how we can use this baby in a fight. Combined with Allura’s new thing,” he makes a whipping noise and flings his arms out, flicking his wrists in a ridiculous pantomime, “Lotor and his babe squad are not gonna know what hit ‘em!” 

 

He starts to describe various tactical scenarios with his usual enthusiasm. Underneath the dramatics, they are well thought out, practical plans that clearly optimize each member of the team’s individual abilities. Far more advanced than Keith’s version of planning, which usually involves an end goal and not much else. Even in theory, Lance is figuring out ways to help him. Keith frowns. “Why are you doing all this?” 

 

His smile a bit uneasy, Lance replies, “I mean, I just wanted to to get better, for the team.” He shrugs. 

 

That’s...not true. Every single time Keith has felt cornered, ready to give up, Lance has been there. Keith doesn’t know how to put it into words, but it’s like, Lance has been his lifeline. Shaking his head, Keith tries to elaborate, “No, I mean, why do you...why are you helping  _ me _ so much?” 

 

Lance looks uncomfortable. His gaze floats to the door, as if hoping someone will interrupt to save him from this conversation. When no one does, he crumbles to the floor, folding his long legs into a pretzel. He butterflies his knees, up and down, a hand on each one, and breathes out the question: “Do you remember the Yllath mission….after….?”

 

Keith settles down beside him, resting his elbow on one knee, looking sideways at Lance. “Yeah.” One of their worst fights. Usually when they argue, it’s scrappy and quick, easily begun and easily resolved. Neither carries the grievance close to his heart, and afterwards, it’s discarded. Not that time. Keith doesn’t remember the impetus for it, but it must have been something stupid that escalated into something real. He doesn’t remember exactly what he said, but he’ll never forget the crack of Lance’s knuckles slamming into his jaw. Angry tears in Lance’s eyes didn’t mean much in the moment when Keith was raging too, both of them breathing hot and ragged. But in the week that followed, Lance’s tears were replaced by vacant, hard contempt, and that cut. 

 

Keith remembers shedding his own tears over it, in the privacy of his room. Frustrated at himself for obviously hurting Lance but not knowing how to make it right. Inconsolable at the idea of estranging himself from such a bright presence in his life. 

 

“That might be the maddest I’ve ever been. Heck, I even punched you!” Lance laughs shakily. Keith tenses, waiting for him to continue. “Shiro….Shiro came to talk to me afterwards.” Keith snaps to attention, eyes searching Lance’s face. Lance goes on, gaze on his boots. “I’m sure he talked to you too. Leader, Pilot of the Black Lion, Paladin Life Coach, Shiro does it all,” he jokes. 

 

Keith doesn’t laugh and Lance clears his throat. When he resumes, he’s quieter. “Do you think he knew we’d have to keep fighting without him?” 

 

Keith nods, no longer trusting himself to speak.  _ If I don’t make it out of here, I want you to lead Voltron.  _

 

“I think he knew.” Lance mumbles. “Anyways, he asked me,” he swallows. “He asked me if he could depend on me to help support you...if you needed it...if he was gone.”  

 

Keith chokes back a sob. Knees pulled up, he curls into himself, pressing the butts of his palms hard against his eyes. 

 

“I said ‘Of course,’” Lance forces out, wavering voice in shreds. “Of course.” 

 

Keith shudders in a breath. His shoulders shake, forehead on his knees. 

 

Lance words come out wobbly and small, but he presses on, seemingly desperate for Keith to understand. “I would have--he didn’t have to ask--I would have anyways. Always. Of course.” 

 

Raising his head, Keith looks at Lance. His face is wet, his eyes still full with unshed tears. They’re close enough that Keith can see drops dampening his eyelashes. Lance’s expressive mouth is pulled into the deepest frown and he shakes his head, “Oh Keith. I’m so sorry.” 

 

With that, every emotion that he’s avoided--painstakingly pushed aside in favor of training until he can no longer stand or meticulous searching when he hasn’t slept in days--every doubt he’s suffered, the loss---of his mentor, his friend, his brother---every bit of control Keith has is broken. He doesn’t realize he’s making any noise until Lance shushs him, soothing as he moves closer. Keith is trembling as he’s pulled into an awkward embrace. Lance is on his knees, cradling Keith’s head to his chest, and Keith clings to him, around his midsection, in response. “I didn’t want this,” he coughs out. Grief suffocates him, cloying and dark as he tries to explain. “I can’t be Shiro’s replacement. I can’t accept that he’s gone.” 

 

Keith feels Lance flinch at his words, but then he tightens his hold, “I know,” he whispers into the crown of Keith’s head, pulling him as close as possible, “I know,” he repeats. He continues until Keith’s breathing starts to slow, gently running his hands down his back. 

 

When Keith pulls away he feels sticky wet with tears and shame, embarrassment creeping up his neck, coloring his ears red and hot. He’s never been this vulnerable in front of another person, not unless he was very young, too young to remember it. His stomach churns with a tumult of emotion and he avoids looking at Lance, swallowing, trying to regain his composure. Lance sits back on his heels, but still holds the back of Keith’s arm, not fully withdrawn. Keith fidgets a little, shifting the arm, and Lance pulls back like he’s just realized a boundary he’s overstepped. 

 

Wiping his eyes and nose with his sleeve, Lance sniffles dramatically before flopping over. He lays on his back on the floor next to Keith and announces to the ceiling, “I’m not crying, you’re crying.”

 

Keith snorts, it comes out wet and gross, and his voice is still warbly when he replies, “Whatever you say.” 

 

Lance breathes out a laugh. It sounds forced, but also shifts the mood into something more manageable for both of them. He pats at his armor and shaking his head asks, “You wanna know something I’ve been thinking this whole time?” 

 

“What?” Keith asks, glad for the distraction. 

 

“Why?” Lance takes a deep breath. “Why did nobody think to add pockets in these dang paladin suits?” He pauses, lips pursed as he gauges Keith’s reaction, staring up at him from the floor. Keith blinks down at him, watery eyes halfway between amusement and confusion, which must be okay with Lance as he smiles, continuing in mock anger. “You cannot tell me,” he jabs the air, “that all those years ago, King Alfor never took a second to say, ‘Hey, maybe I wanna carry around some loose change, pack of gum, keys to my giant robot cat?’” Lance shakes his head again and abruptly sits back up, rolling to his feet in one fluid motion. “Be right back,” he jogs off to the side of the training hall. 

 

He returns a moment later, carrying two water bottles and a packet of tissues, which he hands to Keith. He keeps one water bottle for himself and presses it against the side of his face, closing his eyes at the cool condensation on his skin. 

 

What did Keith do to deserve Lance? Heart and head pounding from his emotional outburst, Keith watches him. He has his mouth screwed up in thought, brow slightly furrowed as he rolls the bottle in his hands, eyes still closed. Just there….giving Keith time. Keith feels a sharp ache of affection which he does his best to put aside. He looks away, resisting the urge to draw him close again, breathe in his presence, kiss a quiet thanks over his skin. He bites his lip. Lance has just admitted to a loyalty, a devotion, that Keith would have never asked of him. How could Keith possibly want more?  

 

“I admired Shiro before I entered into the Garrison.” Lance confesses suddenly. Keith looks back to him, and finds blue eyes, oddly serious, studying him closely. “I mean, of course I did. Everybody admires Shiro; even before the Kerberos mission, the man was a legend.” Lance takes a deep breath. “But you probably don’t realize that I admire you too.” 

 

Keith doesn’t even take time to process this before he’s reeling, “You--” 

 

Lance waves him quiet. “I mean, you’re a hothead, and have bad hair, and the jury is still out on whether or not you even  _ have _ a sense of humor--”

 

“Gee, sounds like you really like me.” Keith deadpans. 

 

“Hey man, don’t put words in my mouth.” Lance scoffs. “I said ‘admire’ okay? Not ‘like.’ Totally different.” He pauses. “But what I’m trying to tell you, is that you’re capable of leading Voltron too. Not in the same way….no one expects that...but.” He looks at Keith, as if trying to see if his words are getting through. “And you have me, right?” 

 

Keith nods, at a loss. There’s no response adequate, nothing he can say that will convey how much he needed to hear what Lance is telling him. “Yeah...I guess I do.” 

 

“You guess?!” Lance stands up and announces to no one: “He ‘guesses’. After all that, he guesses!” Offering Keith a hand, he pulls him up. “Well, I  _ guess _ I am going to go take a shower. And then, I  _ guess _ , if you want, we can go through those combat scenarios I outlined earlier with the rest of the team?”

 

“.....I guess.” Keith smirks, watching Lance get all worked up about nothing. He feels lighter than he has in a long time. 

 

*

 

Shiro, against all odds, finds his way back to them. 

 

*

 

Shiro returned, but not unchanged. Keith will never forget the dread that washed over him as he rushed to Shiro’s side, saw his gaunt face and the way he lay limp in the pilot’s seat. He will not forget the grim set of Allura’s mouth as she hoisted him out of the cockpit without preamble, as though he weighed nothing, and took him to a cryopod. 

 

Keith finds out later that Shiro was in the healing pod for eight days, three days longer than the initial scan said he would need. He finds out second hand because he lost track of the time at the foot of the healing pod, refusing to leave Shiro’s side. Someone brought him meals, although he doesn’t recall who; he must’ve slept at least a few times because he was woken up by nightmares, fueled by the array of fresh scars crisscrossing Shiro’s body, the mats in his hair, the noises he makes even in the deep cryo sleep. When Shiro does finally exit the pod, he collapses into Keith. His expression is blank, void of recognition when Keith greets him, and he remains mute as Keith leads him back to his room. It seems unthinkably cruel to leave him there alone, so again, Keith takes up a post, this time at head of Shiro’s bed. Little by little, Shiro recovers. 

 

Keith is no entertainer; he’s not like Lance who can make a story out of anything, and draw a smile out of the most unwilling listener. But the silence seems bad for Shiro, so he tries to channel Lance, and tells Shiro pointless stories about mouse showers and pillow forts and  _ Kolivan has a daughter, did you know? I didn’t, but Lance found out. _ When he tells him that Lance beat his level on the gladiator, Shiro smiles, quietly asking “No kidding?,” and Keith knows that he is going to come back to them. 

 

*

 

Days later, finally comfortable with leaving Shiro alone, Keith finds himself seeking Lance out. He doesn’t realize he’s looking for him, until he’s standing in front of Lance’s door, irritated that Lance is not in his bedroom. He eventually finds him in the common room, sprawled out boneless on one of the couches, tapping aggressively at a handheld. “Don’t you dare, Pidge, I called dibs on the Playerman for to--”

 

“What the hell is a Playerman?” Keith cuts him off, plopping down next to him. 

 

“Like a Gameboy, but more--Keith!” Lance sits up and stares at him. “You’re back!!” 

 

“I didn’t go anywhere Lance.” 

 

“Not technically, but-- oh!! How is Shiro? How’s he doing? Is he okay, like actually okay?” 

 

Keith smiles. He missed Lance’s exuberance, the sound of his voice. “He’s getting there. Coran is going to cut his hair this afternoon, and he said he’ll probably be at dinner tonight.” 

 

Lance throws his head back on the couch in a sigh of relief. “Oh man, that’s great to hear. Really.” He lifts his head and grins at Keith, so genuine it makes Keith’s heart stutter in his chest. 

 

Without any further prompting, Lance launches into a rant detailing a three day long feud between him and Pidge that culminated in Lance hiding the charging dock for her latest robot buddy. Big mistake, Lance tells him. Pidge retaliated by programing everything in his room--the door, the closet, the drawers, the toilet--to open and close at random intervals. “I can’t even go to the bathroom now,” he bemoans. 

 

Keith laughs, quietly at first...

 

“Hunk said that it’s not random, there’s a pattern, but he’s crazy. There’s no pattern! Listen, I have two older sisters, but I was not prepared for…” Lance stops. 

 

Keith laughs, his shoulders shaking, eyes closed. “What?” he asks, catching his breath. 

 

“You’re laughing?” Lance wonders. 

 

“It’s funny. You’re funny.” Keith shrugs, smiling. 

 

“You’ve never thought so before.” Lance challenges. 

 

“Sure I have.” 

 

“Name one time.” Lance shuffles on the couch next to him, expectant. 

 

Keith leans forward. There’s no reason for it, nothing special about that moment, except that he has Lance’s undivided attention, those blue eyes he loves focused on him, waiting for his reply. So he leans forward, after holding back for so long, and presses a kiss to Lance’s mouth. 

 

“K-k-keith?” Lance’s reaction is instantaneous, scrambling away. “W-what the-- what was that?”

 

Keith raises his brows. “A kiss?” He should feel embarrassed, but Lance is freaking out enough for the both of them. 

 

“No, I mean, I know, but you---” Lance waves his arms around frantically, face red, “You and me?? I mean,  _ me _ ?” 

 

“What’s wrong with you?” Keith crosses his arms. 

 

“I’m not,” Lance deflates, “Well, first of all, I’m not Shiro.” 

 

Keith frowns, “Obviously? What does Shiro have to do with me wanting to kiss you?”

 

“Wanting to kiss!” If possible, Lance’s face becomes even a deeper shade of red. “You like Shiro.” he says meekly. 

 

Keith scoffs, “Shiro is practically my family, of course I like him.” 

 

Lance’s eyes widen. He blinks once, stunned. 

 

Keith closes the gap between them once more, pulling his legs under him on the couch, resting one arm along the back, behind Lance. With the other, he gently repositions Lance’s face, featherlight pressure against his jaw. From this angle, on his knees, he’s slightly above Lance and so he leans down, bringing their mouths close together. “Okay?” he breathes. 

 

Lance wets his lips and Keith can feel the subtle movement of his jaw under his hand as well as the heat from his mouth on his lips. Lance nods, a slight movement that never quite finishes, as Keith’s mouth is once more on his. 

 

Their mouths separate, breathless, foreheads still touching. Lance smiles; Keith can feel the pull of his lips, as he beams, too pleased to kiss properly. 

 

“What?” Keith asks, too distracted by the the feeling of Lance’s fingers curling in the hair at the nape of his neck to understand this private joke. 

 

“Just...happy. Wanted this for a long time,” Lance says, voice thick. He looks at Keith under heavy lidded eyes, “I’ve had dreams that start like this.” 

 

Keith chokes, tossing his head back in a laugh. “Lance that was terrible.” 

 

Lance is flushed, “Keith! Don’t laugh! That was a great line!” He pinches Keith’s side while he is still unguarded. “People pay big money to hear lines like that!” 

 

“What people?” Keith says, amused more by how flustered Lance is than anything else. 

 

“I don’t know. People.” Lance’s pout softens into something a bit more real. “I really have wanted this.” 

 

Keith clenches his jaw, emotional. 

 

“You probably don’t even remember...a couple weeks ago? In the changing room? You looked so tired and worn down. I almost kissed you that day…” 

 

He remembers. Of course he remembers. “So why didn’t you?” 

 

Lance looks surprised at the question. “Uh? Because? I want you to be happy when I kiss you?” He scratches the back of his head. “It also might have had something to do with the fact that I thought you were with Shiro. And kinda hated me. And also that I’m a chicken.” He looks down, uncharacteristically quiet. “But mostly the happy thing.” 

 

How can Keith respond to that? He pulls Lance towards him by the waist, slotting their mouths together once more. They’ve been fighting in tandem and living alongside each other for so long, it feels effortless to attune himself to the shape of Lance’s mouth, the push and pull of his breath, his hands. This is something he already knows, even though it’s the first time he’s put it into practice. Lance sighs, light and breathy and content, and Keith’s heart catches. There was no reason to deny himself this. 

 

“You make me happy.” Keith responds simply. At his worst. At his best. Lance is there. 

 

***

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Consider, for a moment, how unfair it would be for Shiro to ask Lance to support Keith. Almost more unfair than asking Keith to lead Voltron. What a blow to Lance’s already fragile ego. Consider also, that Lance took to the task wholeheartedly, pushing his feelings aside, desperately trying to help Keith from the background, all while believing that Keith is mourning not for his brother/friend, but for his lover. 
> 
> *
> 
> Title is pulled from a Band of Horses song, "St. Augustine."  
> Thank you for reading!!! What did you think of this completely extra take on season three? I hope you enjoyed. Leave me a comment if you feel like it! Want to see me freak out about klance in real time? @jacqulinetan on twitter


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